


Crash and Burn

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: CMAs 2015, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Pre-Show Sex, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“There isn’t time, babe, we go on in—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’ll be fast, no one will know—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Patrick—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I need you, Pete. ‘S been, like, three days. Please.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And, alright, so maybe Pete has a weakness for Patrick’s pleading voice.</em>
</p><p>###</p><p>Patrick gets a little needy before the CMA performance, and Pete feels obligated to give him what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash and Burn

**Author's Note:**

> purely self-indulgent filth. wrote it in two hours. unedited, basically unbeta-ed. hope you like it anyway!

They’re warming up in a backstage room before their CMA performance—which is _literally_ in forty-five minutes—when Pete feels hot breath on the back of his neck. He knows immediately who it is, and his cheeks redden a little like they always do when his boyfriend gets this close. “Yes, Patrick?”

The cold tip of the singer’s nose bumps against Pete’s nape. “You smell good,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the hypersensitive skin.

Pete rolls his eyes but can’t help the amused chuckle he lets out. He knows what Patrick’s trying to do, the needy little shit, but there really isn’t time. “’Trick, we can’t—”

“You shaved.” Patrick cuts him off with a soft kiss on the shoulder; Pete wonders briefly if anyone is watching them. Their relationship isn’t exactly public knowledge yet. “You know how I get when you shave.”

This time Pete maybe shudders a little, his resolve weakening. He still protests, though, fingers trembling as he tries to keep strumming his bass. “There isn’t time, babe, we go on in—”

“It’ll be fast, no one will know—”

“Patrick—”

“I need you, Pete. ‘S been, like, three days. _Please.”_

And, alright, so maybe Pete has a weakness for Patrick’s pleading voice. He sighs in defeat and props his bass up in its stand, acting put out. “Fine,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning a little as he turns and finally meets Patrick’s eyes.

Five minutes and a few shitty excuses later, they’re in their dressing room behind a locked door. They’ve done this before, screwed around before shows, but never before a nationally televised one. Pete doesn’t really have the heart to complain, though, not with Patrick straddling him on the squeaky faux-leather couch and kissing him like he’d die without it.

When this whole thing between them had started a few months ago (well, _officially_ started, they’ve had a “thing” pretty much since they met), Pete had expected himself to be the riskier one. He’s always had a teeny tiny exhibitionist streak, and he’s never been ashamed of it. But as soon as he and Patrick had started sleeping together, he’d realized that the younger man is pretty much insatiable when it came to sex. Not insatiable in the sense that he’s constantly horny and begging to suck Pete’s dick, even though that wouldn’t exactly be a problem—no, it’s the kind of insatiable where when Patrick wants sex, he won’t take no for an answer. He’s never whiny or demanding, just quietly persistent, touching Pete’s shoulder more often and squeezing his hip and grazing his knuckles “casually” down the side of Pete’s thigh if he’s standing close enough. If those tactics don’t work, he’ll resort to nuzzles and gentle kisses, ghosting his lips across the side of Pete’s neck or the back of his hand. That’s the point he’s apparently reached tonight, and Pete knows he’ll be getting smoldering looks during their performance if he doesn’t do something to calm Patrick down.

God, that makes it sound like a fucking chore, but it’s really not.

Pete moans softly into Patrick’s hot, wet mouth and grips his hips tighter as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Patrick scoots even closer and moves his hands from Pete’s shoulders to the lapels of his jacket, tugging at them impatiently but making no move to remove the clothing yet. He grinds down and Pete gasps at the feeling of Patrick’s erection against his through the thin denim of their black dress jeans.

“Don’t have much time,” Pete breathes as he moves his mouth to Patrick’s neck, kissing and sucking gently. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist and bucks up to meet the younger man’s increasingly sinister hip motions. “Want me to suck you off? Touch you? Tell me what you want, babe, c’mon.”

Patrick whines in the back of his throat and leans forward to bury his flushed face in Pete’s shoulder. He mumbles something quietly; Pete doesn’t quite catch it.

“Hmm?”

“I-I said I…wanna ride you.”

And. Um. Holy _shit._ Pete…hadn’t been expecting that one. Sure they’ve been together for about three months now, but they’ve only done “Butt Stuff” a few times, and always in a hotel room or somewhere equally private, never in a dressing room _half an hour before going onstage._ And Patrick’s never asked for it before, either—usually it’s Pete gasping the request in the singer’s ear.

“U-Uh…shit,” Pete finally chokes out, pulling back to look at Patrick. The younger man is biting his lip and blushing almost scarlet; he looks embarrassed, but his eyes are dark and desperate and certain. Pete swallows hard. “Here? Are…Are you sure? I don’t think we have time—”

“We do,” Patrick insists, rocking his hips down again and digging his fingertips into Pete’s chest. He fixes Pete with a heated stare and licks his red, kiss-bitten lips. “P-Please, Pete. We don’t even have to get all the way undressed. I just—I need you.”

Patrick rarely begs, so Pete pays close attention when he does. And this plea sounds more desperate than any the bassist has heard from Patrick before. Still, the logistics of the whole thing… “We’ll sweat through our clothes, people will see. And do you even have any stuff?”

As if on cue, Patrick reaches into a hidden pocket inside his suit jacket and produces a condom and a small tube of KY. Pete’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“And our jackets will hide the sweat,” Patrick says, pressing the supplies into one of Pete’s hands. “We can blame it on the performance if they don’t, anyway. Oh, and also…” He flicks his gaze downwards almost bashfully and shifts in Pete’s lap. “I-I’m kind of already prepped?”

All the air in Pete’s lungs leaves in a whoosh. He throbs in his jeans and squeezes Patrick’s hip with his free hand. “What?”

“Y’know, um, that plug thing you got last month that I said I would never ever use under any circumstances?”

 _Fucking hell._ Pete’s head spins and the last of his objections fly out the fucking window in an instant. “Oh. My. God.” He cranes his neck up to kiss Patrick hungrily, trying to picture how the medium-sized blue plug looks shoved in Patrick’s ass, stretching him. _“Fuck._ How—how long has it—?”

“Few hours,” Patrick gasps against Pete’s lips, tangling one hand in the bassist’s blonde-tipped hair. “Been kinda hard to walk normal.”

Pete just chuckles and tugs him closer. “I can’t believe you _planned_ this, you conniving little bastard. I fucking _love_ you.” He swipes his tongue against Patrick’s for a few seconds before pulling back to glance at the wall-mounted clock across the room. “Fuck, we got twenty minutes. Pants off, now.”

Patrick nods, kisses Pete one more time, and stands. Now that he’s actually looking, Pete notices the slight lopsidedness in Patrick’s stance, the way he balances more of his weight on his right leg than his left. “Can’t believe you’ve had a fucking plug in your ass since before we got to the fucking venue, holy _shit,_ ‘Trick,” Pete chokes out as he fumbles with his own belt. He almost rips the fly of his jeans in his haste to get it open and when he’s finally pulled his cock out of his boxer briefs, he looks up and sees Patrick shoving his own underwear down his thick, pale thighs and kicking it to the side. “Jesus.”

“Nope, just me,” Patrick says with a smug grin and climbs back into Pete’s (still fully-clothed) lap. He takes one of Pete’s hands and tugs it behind himself; Pete groans when he feels smooth silicone protruding from Patrick’s slicked entrance.

Because he can’t help himself, Pete looks into Patrick’s eyes and presses down hard on the end of the plug, forcing it deeper. Patrick’s eyelids flutter and his mouth opens in a silent gasp as he swivels his hips back, searching for more. He’s the most beautiful thing Pete’s ever seen.

Suddenly, Pete can’t wait another second to get his cock in his boyfriend. “I’m gonna fuck you so fucking hard,” he growls, tugging Patrick in for a rough, bitey kiss as he grips the plug and pulls it out in one go. Patrick whimpers at the loss and Pete soothes him with a gentle hand on the small of his back. “Ten seconds, babe, gimme ten seconds,” he murmurs, dropping the plug to the floor.

Pete doesn’t think he’s ever opened a condom and rolled it on so fast in his life. He tosses the foil wrapper aside, slicks himself up with the lube, and guides Patrick to him. “Ready?” he asks, voice hoarse already.

Patrick bites his lip and nods. In one smooth motion that kind of shocks both of them, he sinks down on Pete’s cock until he’s fully seated in Pete’s lap again.

 _“Shit!”_ Pete squeezes his eyes shut and digs his nails into Patrick’s thighs. “O-Ohmygod, ‘Trick, you already feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?” Patrick gasps, touching his forehead to Pete’s. He slowly swivels his hips and bites out a curse as he adjusts to Pete’s girth—the plug was decently sized, but Pete’s still bigger.

After a few seconds, Pete opens his eyes and stares into Patrick’s. Patrick takes that as his cue to move, and he does, slowly lifting up before _slamming_ back down. They both shout at the feeling, and soon they’ve got a rhythm going, Patrick meeting Pete’s upward motions with his own desperate downward ones.

“Fuck me, Pete,” Patrick whimpers, bouncing in Pete’s lap like they’ve been doing this for years. His hard cock bounces with him, leaking against the hem of his dark shirt already, and Pete can’t help but stare at it. “F-Fuck me, fuck me, _oh…_ ”

“Yeah, fuck, I got you, I got you.” Pete thrusts up into Patrick as hard as he can and muffles both of their noises by kissing the breath out of the singer. His hands skim restlessly over the soft, pale skin of Patrick’s thighs and he can’t resist scratching them a little. Patrick’s breath hitches every time Pete moves; Pete wants to hear more of him. “How’s it feel, babe, c’mon, tell me…”

“F-Feels—nnngh!” Patrick throws his head back and tightens the circle of his arms around Pete’s neck when they finally get the angle right. He shuts his eyes tightly and his mouth goes slack as he starts circling his hips more frantically. “Feels so good,” he finally breathes. “Oh, god, Pete, right—right _there—_!”

Pete grunts and grabs at Patrick’s hips as he starts driving against Patrick’s prostate with all his strength. He stares up at Patrick in awe, taking in the delicious image above him: the younger man’s face is twisted in pure pleasure and sweat is beading on his forehead like he’s been singing for two hours. There’s a pink blush high in his cheeks and his hat is still on his head and he’s biting his lip hard—if he weren’t about to sing in ten minutes, Pete knows he’d be screaming.

Fuck. _Ten minutes._ They’ve gotta get a move on.

As much as Pete would love to draw this out, they can’t be late for their performance. He wraps one hand tightly around Patrick’s cock and starts tugging fast and hard, swiping his thumb over the head on every other stroke. Patrick grits his teeth, and Pete leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Gonna make you come so hard, ‘Trick, gonna rip it out of you, that’s what you get for wearing a fucking plug all day and begging to sit on my dick, _fuck,_ never knew you could be so fucking slutty, babe, love you so much, c’mon, come for me, I know you wanna, let go, come on, Patrick, _come_ —”

“Pete, P-Pete, oh, I’m— _ah!”_ Patrick shoves his own hand in his mouth and bites down hard on his palm as he finally comes, clenching deliciously around Pete. The bassist barely has the sense to catch most of Patrick’s jizz in his hand before he’s coming himself, throwing his head back and groaning through his teeth.

They clean up impressively quickly, disposing of the condom and wiping off the plug with a tissue before stashing it under the couch (“Pete, someone’s gonna _find_ it!” “It’s our dressing room, no one comes in here but us, I’ll get it as soon as we’re done.”). They get dressed and fix their hair and stumble out of the dressing room on shaky legs, hoping they don’t look too conspicuous.

Pete watches Patrick onstage, hears the breathiness of his voice, notices the slight limp in his gait. Yeah, he thinks with a private grin, he’s never resisting pre-show sex again.

###


End file.
